


let me down gently

by theclaravoyant



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: AOS Advent 2017, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Lovers to Friends, Other, THIS IS A BREAKUP FIC, UA, canon compatible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 09:31:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13074057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theclaravoyant/pseuds/theclaravoyant
Summary: FitzSimmons struggle with the pain and the joy of wanting the best for each other, but not being able to embody it. They learn that not all great friendships are destined to be great romances, but that doesn't mean there's not a lot of love there.





	let me down gently

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: "a FitzSimmons breakup fic". also fits [AOS Advent 2017](https://aosadvent2017.tumblr.com/) prompt ["endings"](https://aosadvent2017.tumblr.com/post/168627946977/banner-by-the-fantabulous-merryfitzsimmons-9#notes)  
> set vaguely early/mid S4 ish. UA

_If you're gonna let me down, let me down gently_  
_Don't pretend that you don't want me_  
_Our love ain't[water under the bridge](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XzkjjxqL24Y)_  
\- Adele

-

After all that time, all that effort, they only made it a year.  
Some would say, not even that, but it depends where you stop counting. 

As tends to be the case with these things, it started small. Text messages left unanswered. Minor, helpful errands agreed to and forgotten. Then it escalated; slowly at first, but snowballing, from _I love yous_ mumbled and thrown away; to morning kisses skipped; to appointments missed. When they did get together they talked about work, or their concerns for their friends, or all manner of things that weren’t themselves or each other. For a while, that was fine. It was to be expected. It was enough – and for a while, even when it wasn’t enough, they could blame exhaustion, irritation, their busy schedules and so on, and so on, and so on. But eventually, a pattern started to emerge:

Fitz would set something up.

Jemma would be unable to attend it, for some reason. It’s too far away, she’s not dressed, she’s too tired, she’s working, or even, she forgot. It happens. 

Fitz, never one to make her feel bad about putting her career and their mutually beloved noble causes above a mere dinner or movie or chat, said nothing. Even offered his support, sometimes. 

Then Jemma, believing all was forgiven, would go about her work with Fitz’s blessing. She’d be happy to regale to her colleagues, stories of how wonderful Fitz was being about _all this,_ and she loved an opportunity to mention something she’d learned from him or something he’d invented that came in handy as they worked. So it felt, to her, like she was not entirely separate from him. He was with her in spirit. But the next time Fitz set something up – 

\- and she missed it –

\- it still felt like she’d only missed one thing, really, because he didn’t mind last time so that didn’t count. And if he sounded a little annoyed on the phone, then that was because they were both tired and they shouldn’t read anything into it, right? And God, did he have to leave her so many texts and messages about it? She already said she was sorry!

Fitz, for his part, did sometimes wonder if he should back off a bit. They did have a lot to do, and with how high up Jemma was now, she had even moreso, in trying to balance the many sides of the mysterious gameboard on which they lived their lives. He got it. Nevertheless, there remained an aching hole inside his chest as if Jemma had been carved out of it. It was not the same as when she’d been dragged away by fate or enemies or any number of things that had separated them before. This was a more muted ache: a distance, tugging on him. He wondered if Jemma felt it too – but she mustn’t have, or else she wouldn’t have managed to avoid him for so long. Some days it felt as though he’d been poisoned, and it was all he could do to slow the burn, to reach out with little gifts, messages, texts, emails; anything to try and communicate with his wonderful, but elusive, partner.

It annoyed her. She’d always hated clingy guys. Sometimes it smothered her so much that when she finally did see Fitz’s face, all she wanted to do was move away from it; to shower or sleep or get some time to _herself._

Yet, all Fitz wanted to do was spend one precious second of his day _with her._ After so long scrimping at subpar scraps of her, surely that couldn’t be too much to ask.

In the end, one could say, it was too much love that ruined them. Just as too much light or water could kill a plant, their relationship withered from too much of the wrong sort of care. Both of them poured their own love into it and the other didn’t know about it; didn’t think about it; didn’t truly get to _feel_ it. So when they poured their own, they gave a little extra in case the other wasn’t giving enough, which made things look worse and so the other overcompensated too. On and on like this, they gave more and more and more until they had a pool of wasted love, drowning the precious plant they’d spent ten much healthier years cultivating. 

By the time they realised what was happening, it was too late to save the relationship. The romantic part of it anyway. The leaves were yellowing and the stem wilting and if they pruned it, maybe – maybe they could take what was left and grow it back. But a sacrifice would have to be made first, and for a long time they both loved each other too much to make it. 

Until one night. This night. 

Jemma stared at her phone. She knew she was going to cancel again, but she was no longer oblivious to the pattern, or to the edge in Fitz’s voice; the pain she was causing him. She knew that they were not spending enough time face-to-face for him: she was not entirely ignorant, after all, to Fitz’s communication preferences after all this time. But she also knew that if she went home to him, she would be thinking about this. She would be on her phone or her computer, answering her messages. Not truly with him. He deserved better than that. But telling him so felt like the opposite. 

Still. She’d always been good at doing what needed to be done, so she took a deep breath. They’d managed to patch up every fight, every miscommunication they’d ever had, she reminded herself. They’d get to this one eventually. After this mess. When they had time. All they had to do was make it until then – whenever that was - and then she could be sorry and she could spend all day, all night, all week, all year making it up to him. 

But of course, that magical, obligation-free time of daydreams would never come. Not just because it was fictional, but because when she said those words again – 

 _I’m sorry_

Fitz went quiet on the other end of the line. 

Not an offended-yet-amused, classic-Jemma sort of quiet. 

Not a pursing-his-lips, pulling-himself-together sort of quiet. 

It was the sort of quiet that made Jemma’s heart hurt. It felt heavy. It felt like dragging his bruised and beaten body up a flight of stairs and finding the corpse of their relationship bleeding out on the floor. 

In a whisper, such a pained and broken whisper, he said:

“I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

 

And just like that, her time had run out and she could think of nothing more important, more urgent, than seeing his face. 

Jemma stammered an apology to her colleague, not even bothering to check if it was the right one, and then she ran – careening through the corridors with, for once, nothing on her mind but him and how she had to _fix this._

Then, as suddenly as she had begun, Jemma came to a jarring stop outside the door to her and Fitz’s bedroom. She took a moment to catch her breath, and regretted it instantly, as reflections rose unbidden to the surface of her mind. At this stage in their relationship she’d been hoping they’d be at least taking late-night cab rides back to the apartment together on occasion, maybe furnishing and decorating it on their R&R days. One day – another distant, magical, impossible day – she’d thought they might even leave Shield, or at least stop working out of the base. She’d never truly committed, she realised now, but still, she’d had hopes for them. That was something, right? Otherwise, staring at the cream coloured door with a little _102_ label next to it… feeling those hopes be dashed… it wouldn’t hurt so much. She almost pushed the door open just to get it over with. 

But of course, it was not over.

The room was draped in their belongings – their clothes, mementos, picture frames. On the bedside table, a candle flickered. In the middle of it all, Fitz was still sitting on the side of the bed, his cellphone in his hands. He stared down at it, hardly seeing it – and hardly having moved, Jemma imagined, since he’d said it. 

 _I don’t think I can do this anymore._

Jemma crept toward him, heart beginning to thrum in her chest, anxiety spiralling. How much had she hurt him? What had they done? Was he going to try to pull this boat back to shore with her or had the ropes already slipped from his fingers? 

“Fitz?” 

He looked up. His eyes were slightly reddened and glistening with tears, and the smile that flashed across his lips smacked of the irony of this moment. 

“You came,” he noted. 

“Of course I did,” Jemma insisted, dashing across the room to sit on the bed beside him. “For the important stuff I always –“ 

She took his hand, trying to reassure the both of them even as the words turned sour on her tongue. She wished she’d chosen any other word but _important_ – big? serious? - but it was too late now, and while for the most part she didn’t believe in Freudian slips, she knew that too much truth stood behind this one. 

“I… I didn’t mean…” 

Fitz pulled his hand from hers and stood up, pacing the room with a heavy, slow, suffering gait. 

“The important stuff?” he repeated, and then stopped, and stood, and waved his arms about the room. “Is this not important to you?” 

“You _know_ that’s not what I meant!” Jemma retorted, leaping to her feet with fists clenched even as her own eyes started to fill with tears. 

“Am _I_ not important to you?” 

“Don’t be _ridiculous,_ Fitz-“ 

“Oh, _I’m_ being ridiculous?!” Fitz gestured to himself with his whole body, arms curling in against his chest. “I was just waiting for _you_ – I’m _always_ waiting for you –“ 

“I never _asked_ you to!” 

“You shouldn’t _have_ to!”

“What if I _don’t want_ you to wait for me?” 

Fitz blinked, jolted off track. 

“What do you mean?” 

Jemma took a deep breath. 

“I love you, Fitz,” she explained, “but sometimes you’re… too much. You just - you love, with all this heart and all this… drama… that I just can’t match. And I’m… not really sure I want to.” 

Fitz shook his head – insistently, desperately. “That’s okay.” 

“Is it?” Jemma challenged. “Because I feel like it’s exactly the reason this isn’t working out.” 

“Don’t say that.” 

“You said it first.” 

“I know.” Fitz sighed. “But I’m the dramatic one. I’m supposed to see the disaster. You’re supposed to…“

“… Fix this?” 

The words sat between them with uncomfortable familiarity. Previously, they had brought relief, comfort, unity. They had brought division, misunderstanding, pain. Now, they were a forlorn grasp at a hope that had already left them. 

“Don’t you think, maybe,” Jemma offered, as confidently as she could, “maybe this _is_ fixing it? Maybe… we were never meant to be together like this.” 

“But I love you.” 

“That’s not enough.” 

“It is – it has to be,” Fitz stammered. “If it’s not, what is?” 

They’d come so far, and even still, his eyes shone bright as if lit by his very soul. In them, Jemma saw the boy she’d once met, who’d come to Shield with big dreams of saving the world. She saw the man who’d once stood in a box underneath the ocean, and told her that death wouldn’t be so bad. He’d believed in Ward, in May, in Coulson, in Mack, in Daisy. In her. Sometimes even when he shouldn’t have. If love was not enough, that boy – that man was asking, what then? What was the point of anything? 

With no answer to offer, Jemma turned away from his pleading eyes. 

“Do you love me?” 

His question chased her up the other end of the room, but her response was the same. 

“It’s not enough.” 

_“Jemma.”_

_“What?”_ she snapped, spinning back to face him, breathless with the same pain and fear that was making him beg. “What do you want me to tell you, Fitz? The world isn’t how you want it to be. Things end, and things break, and sometimes you can’t fix them. And sometimes love just isn’t enough. Haven’t you _learnt_ that by now? Didn’t Ward teach you anything?” 

“Didn’t _I_ teach _you_ anything?” Fitz retorted. “Didn’t you teach _me?_ When we were down there, at the bottom of the ocean – if we’d believed love wasn’t enough, we’d probably both be dead by now. I certainly would be. But you pulled me out of there, even though the odds were _impossible -”_

“Not impossible –“ 

“And then, on Maveth – why did I jump? Why did I think I could find you, on a whole planet’s worth of surface in just a few seconds? And how the hell did Daisy keep the portal open?” 

“Strength. Desperation. I was running straight for you.” 

“You were watching the sunrise with Will because of _sentiment._ Because of _love._ Daisy’d been instructed to keep the window open for a probe. Not for me. Not for you. For a hunk of metal. When I jumped in there she would have shattered every bone in her body to keep me on the other end of that line and I never asked her to do that but you know she would have. Why? Because of love.” 

“I don’t see what Daisy has to do with anything.” 

“And Will?” 

Fitz raised an eyebrow, but Jemma had no retort. 

“You’re – talking in pseudo science,” she managed eventually. 

“You’re the one who asked me to explain why I believe in love!” Fitz yelped. “If you wanted a scientific argument, don’t start out of the gates with the single greatest mystery that humanity’s ever faced!”

Even through her tears, Jemma had to smile at that. It seemed like just such a Fitz thing to say, and for a moment, his expression was so petulant that she was reminded of back in their Academy days, arguing over philosophy and ethics, history, potentiality. It was strangely reassuring to realise that not everything about this had to hurt. Even if most of it did.

“I do love you, Fitz,” she clarified. “But let me ask you this: do you want to have children?” 

“Of course I do,” he replied, as if it were as bafflingly obvious as _do you want biscuits with your tea?_ or _do you know two plus two equals four? “_ Two of them. Maybe three.” 

“Well, I don’t,” Jemma said. “And where do you want to live?”

“The countryside,” Fitz offered, more reluctantly this time as he pieced together the path she was laying out for him. “Or the suburbs, at least. Maybe back in Scotland, maybe here, I don’t mind.” 

“Well, I’d want to stay in the city.” 

“But you said –“ 

“I know what I said,” Jemma agreed, apologetically, “and I want to want that, but I just don’t. I want the happiness, I want the domesticity that I was imagining – just not like that. I want to travel a lot, and work whenever I want… maybe change careers, I don’t know, but the point is, I like being busy. I don’t want to settle down.” 

Fitz hung his head, and kicked at the carpet. 

“Well.” He snorted. “You’d go out of your bloody mind in Perthshire, then.” 

Lifting his head a little, he smiled - a brave and tearful smile - and finally Jemma found that she could smile too. Could they, maybe, come to terms with this after all?

Fitz offered out his hands to her, and Jemma stepped in and took them. It felt like stepping over the threshold into safety on a cold winter’s night. She felt like finally letting all these feelings, all these tears go. But she had to make sure of where they stood first. She took a deep breath.

“I guess what I’m saying is,” she concluded, “the jury’s still out on the Power of Love when it comes to the universe, but when it comes to us… I’m afraid it’s just not enough to fix this. I’m sorry.” 

Fitz shook his head. “No. You were right. I think, maybe, we are fixing it right now. I mean… otherwise, what then? You’re supposed to move to some dull suburb in the middle of nowhere? I’m supposed to stop wanting a family? Those are big things, Jemma. Life altering things. They’re win-or-lose things, and… I don’t want to have a win-or-lose relationship with you.”

Jemma tilted her head. All of a sudden the lump in her throat felt so big that no words could escape past it, even if she could think of any that would be enough. Burning tears rolled down her cheeks. Fitz used their joined hands to pull her the rest of the way into a hug, and he enveloped her, and pressed his cheek to the top of her head. From his silence, his stillness, and the tightness of his breath, Jemma could tell he was crying too, and in a way, that was a good thing. All things that were healing, hurt.

And so they stood for a while, in a fragile silence that was somehow both ugly and beautiful, both fraught and calm. As they stood, the world shifted around them, transforming back into something that made a little more sense. Where the Big Questions no longer hung over them with the ominous weight of a guillotine, scaring them away from communicating as they should. Where the withering branches of their relationship had been cut away, leaving a healthy bulb and what greenery they could salvage, from which a friendship could once again bloom. 

“I love you,” Jemma whispered, because it felt like the last time she could say it. Like this, anyway. 

“I love you too,” Fitz replied, in a similar tone, and let Jemma draw herself back to arms’ length. Though she still had tears on her face, she smiled up at him and touched his cheek gently, wiping his tears away. 

“I hope you find her, Fitz,” she whispered. “I hope she’s everything you ever dreamed.”  
  
Fitz smiled a little, sadly. “Me too,” he said. “For you, I mean. If he’s not a… a Crown Prince, who… volunteers for Doctors Without Borders, and does modelling in his spare time, he can move right along. Nothing but the best for my best friend.” 

They both winced at his last words. The wound was still too fresh to jump into easy banter, and they’d found their line. Both of them wheeled back from it uneasily. 

“I, uh – “

“It’s okay, I should – “ 

“- got some work –“ 

“ – early start – “

“- Yeah.” 

“Yeah.” 

A few paces back from each other now, they stopped for a moment. Pulled themselves together. Took their pain and their smiles and shoved them together into something that would, someday – not too far from today – become beautiful once again. 

“I’ll, uh, see you tomorrow, I guess,” Fitz offered. 

“See you then.” 

Jemma beamed, with all the strength she could muster, and slipped out the door before her smile could collapse – and before either of them had to think of anything else to say. On the other side, she caught herself. Checked herself. A lot had happened and her head was still spinning, and her heart still hurt, but her gut told her they’d done the right thing. They’d be okay with it, one day. 

For now, there was Daisy’s frowning face as she caught sight of a flustered Jemma wiping the tears from her eyes. She frowned at the closed door, then at Jemma. 

“Everything okay?” 

“Getting there,” Jemma promised, “but can I bunk with you tonight?”


End file.
